William Wordsworth

It Was An April Morning: Fresh And Clear - Poem by William Wordsworth

It was an April morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed; and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was softened down into a vernal tone. The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. The budding groves seemed eager to urge on The steps of June; as if their various hues Were only hindrances that stood between Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed Such an entire contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer.--Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The Stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song, Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; But 'twas the foliage of the rocks--the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And, on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain-cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said, 'Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.' ----Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.

..............this is a place I wish to visit in the spring.....to see the shepherds and their dog, with their flocks of sheep....
and a mountain cottage with a little stream running nearby.....to breathe the fresh air on a warm day in april....and listen to stories under a sky of blue with big cumulus clouds floating by....oh this would be a dream....
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Gives an entire new meaning to the traditional view of Wordsworth as a nature lover, all those negative ions from the water and vibrant nature exciting his brain cells and raising the sap. Wordsworth never married his French lover, the two timer, that bore him a daughter in France did he? An intriguing poem, dedicated to a woman and a place of meeting, that made a deep impression upon him. A self dedication to the young man that ran and his Emma that received him so willingly with an moralized love.
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This will be treated as a nonsense by the author of 'The Devil Wears Prada'. Wordsworth, had you been working in a modern bank, then how would you compose all this or an editor of Vogue with your office in Manhattan or firther more your house being drowned in the stream in torrential rain.
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A joyfully flowing brook or stream passing through beautiful natural surroundings of green vegetation, sheep and shepherds and becoming falls and going on with a cottage on hill top Wordsworth surreys like Milton of L'allegro and Fancy of Keats to dedicate it to his Emma. It's a free flowing poem of his out put of joy in Nature that has no bound indeed making the readers also participate with him to enjoy vicarious pleasure I too have enjoyed very much!
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Funny, but there was a girl or young mature woman of our childhood crowd. We sort of danced around her and she was the only sane one of the crowd. So, it was like a special glen of wonderment the early young part of life. With April and the dancing flower friends around her. Such was a thought provoking memory of the mid 1960s that this poem evoked. [ though Shakespeare was a playwright, not a poet ]
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I can think of no greater memorial than a glen full of the spirit of enjoyment, desire, hopes, and wishes. In times of great loss and pain, the 'wild nook' with a clear stream has been the most healing balm that I have found. If Emma had the same feelings for Wordsworth, would she feel that a name on a lonely sheep pasture was an adequate response to their love?
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